Warring States Survival Guide
Chapter 184 - 126: Even the strictest rules have underlying reasons!

Chapter 184: Chapter 126: Even the strictest rules have underlying reasons!

Wanjin, army camp.

Piao Sanlang was sweating all over as he and Pan Silang frantically wiped the floor clean with rags, not missing a single corner. Guotai Lang, meanwhile, was with Wan Cilang and Tong Wulang at the doorway, carefully scrubbing daily-use items like bamboo mats, wooden basins, and ceramic pots.

Guotai Lang was the Deputy Small Banner, basically the "superior" of the other four. As he scrubbed away at the entrance, he nagged nervously, "Hurry up, all of you, be quick! It’s almost inspection time."

Pan Silang muttered something under his breath, as if he was complaining, but it was so muffled you couldn’t really make it out. Still, even while complaining, he couldn’t help but speed up his hands.

Piao Sanlang kept his mouth shut, continuing to scrub the floor with all his might. Even if this floor was cleaner than the face of the master he used to serve, he didn’t dare leave a single corner untouched. He’d wipe it over again just to be safe—otherwise, once the punishment came, no one would be spared.

Luckily, it was just a ten-man wooden hut without much furniture, and it’d been fairly clean to begin with. The five of them got the chores done in no time when working together.

Only then did Piao Sanlang breathe a sigh of relief, hurriedly went to wash his face, and sat down on the floor to catch his breath.

Guotai Lang was still checking things all around, whispering the regulations for internal affairs as if reciting a spell, scanning for anything missed. After fussing over everything two more times, he finally relaxed a bit. Then he turned and warned the other four not to wander around—wait until after the inspection.

Pan Silang couldn’t hold back another mutter, this time Piao Sanlang could make out a bit, sounding like "Might as well have no break at all if this is how it is," or something like that. But he didn’t chime in, either—if the "white sticks" overheard, they’d all get a beating for sure.

Tong Wulang, the youngest at sixteen or seventeen, always wanted to chat whenever there was downtime. He turned to Guotai Lang and asked, "Big Brother Lang, I heard we’re getting paid today! What do you plan to do with your wages?"

"I’m going to save up and buy some land someday," Guotai Lang replied offhandedly. But talking about this seemed to improve his mood and made him less anxious.

Tong Wulang wasn’t interested in buying land, so he turned to Wan Cilang, "How about you, Brother Jiro?"

Wan Cilang said casually, "Save it for a wife, of course!"

Tong Wulang wasn’t into the idea of marrying either, so he asked Piao Sanlang, "How about you, Brother Sanlang?"

Piao Sanlang hesitated for a moment, but didn’t hide anything from the brothers he lived with day in and day out: "I’m saving up too—planning to start... a small business after."

This time, Tong Wulang got interested and pressed, "What kind of business? You thinking of becoming a traveling merchant, Brother Sanlang?"

Piao Sanlang answered honestly, "I know how to boil lacquer and harvest wax. After my service is done and I’m a free man, I want to sell candles."

"Selling candles, nice! Candles are valuable!"

Tong Wulang slapped his thigh, not having known that Piao Sanlang had a trade in his pocket—he was a skilled worker! His face showed envy and he was just about to say something about tagging along with his big brother in the future. But Pan Silang rained on the parade first: "Better survive these two years before talking about it. Die here and only thing you’ll eat is candles!"

"It’s not like we’re definitely going to die, is it? Haven’t we stopped getting beaten lately?" Tong Wulang had gone through more than a month here and was already starting to get used to army life. As long as you memorized the rules and gave the "white sticks" nothing to nitpick, those "white sticks" could only glare helplessly.

Guotai Lang wasn’t a fan of Pan Silang, who was always complaining and dragging everyone down. He scolded from the side, "Old Five has a point, but you cause the most trouble! Just keep your mouth shut for once and be honest, and we’ll all be fine!"

"Yeah, exactly!"

Even Piao Sanlang couldn’t help but join in this time. He’d been dragged down by Pan Silang more than a few times himself. At first, he used to complain along with Pan Silang and once, by mistake, got overheard by the "white sticks." A whole group of "white sticks" suddenly rushed in, kicked them down, and beat them so badly they were rolling on the ground howling like dogs. The pain lasted five or six days—it was pure hell.

But just as he echoed the sentiment, he noticed a guy appear suddenly at the doorway, a white short stick tucked at his waist. The sight of that stick made him shudder on reflex, instantly recalling the terror it commanded. He shot upright at once, standing ramrod straight, and gave his mates a heads-up by shouting, "Flag Officer!"

The Pot, Bowl, Pan, and Bucket all shot up too, standing like boards, eyes forward—not daring to look around. That Flag Officer, Qi Sanlang, didn’t say a word and just walked in. He sniffed the air—detecting no odd smells—then wandered the room inspecting. He found the floors and walls all spotless, no dust, no mold.

He went over to the shelves and saw that the wooden basins for washing were all neatly in place; wooden bowls and bamboo chopsticks for eating were squeaky clean—nothing to find fault with.

He thought about it, then bent down and dragged the ceramic basin out from under the shelves. This basin was for lighting dried duckweed to drive off mosquitoes—since it was summer and brush grew thick outside Wanjin, mosquitoes swarmed after dark. If you didn’t smoke them out, you couldn’t sleep. He scraped hard at the bottom of the basin with his finger—not a bit of grime, just as squeaky clean as everything else.

Still unwilling to give up, he put the basin back under the shelf and unfolded a bamboo mat, inspecting and sniffing it. No bugs, no salt granules, no sweat stains—he had no choice but to roll up the mat again, put it neatly in place, and leave without a word.

Guotai Lang slumped to the floor as soon as the officer disappeared, wiping a hand across his cold sweat. The rest—the bowl, ladle, pan, and bucket—also let out a long sigh of relief. Seemed like they’d passed inspection again—no beatings today... No drills this afternoon, so there’s no way to get beaten; chores were done, so only thing left was to not slack on calisthenics tonight, mind the fire, keep quiet after lights out, and stay awake on sentry duty. If all that went fine, there’d be no beatings today.

As long as they passed inspection, everything else was manageable. Wan Cilang and Pan Silang flopped down on the floor, ready to get some real rest. But before they could settle, another "white stick" showed up at the door and barked, "Ninth Small Banner, go to Camp School to collect your month’s pay!"

"Reporting, the Ninth Small Banner’s personnel... um, not all present, Small Banner and four others are on kitchen duty today." Guotai Lang sprang up to answer, though he hesitated for a second and started sweating again.

This "white stick" didn’t care, just left a "Got it, you go first," and went on to the next room. Guotai Lang dared not delay—promptly told his four fellows to tidy up, line up, and march out.

......

Harano was in the Camp School, personally handing out pay to the soldiers one by one. Leaving aside the first chaotic ten-odd days of preparation, these men had officially trained in camp for a month—and it was time for salaries. He couldn’t go back on his word, so today was pay day, half a day off, and a nice meal that evening—give the boys a break, make them happy for once.

He handed the money to each soldier personally, exchanging a smiling word or two. For any promising recruits he’d noticed in the past month—the ones who might make it into evening classes as prospective officers—he’d chat a bit more, maybe draw a few bigger cakes in the air for them.

He wasn’t sure if this helped, but recalled that Yuan Datou did the same. Handing out pay himself to over seven thousand men, which was way tougher than what Harano was doing. If you’re talking ability, Yuan Datou was definitely better—so learning from the best couldn’t be wrong. He just copied what he saw—draw the gourd by tracing the bottle, and do it as it was done.

But all told, talking a little hardly counted as tiring. This past month and a half had brought every kind of trouble; there were way messier things. Like that old saying: easy to know, hard to do!

Getting these hundred and forty-some people together, the first headache was unexpectedly weird: the duplication rate on names was insane. Before, they’d worked in different workshops or squads, so it didn’t show, but now they were squeezed together and roll call was needed. Turned out there were eleven people named "Taichiro," six named "Sanlang" (like him), and all the rest were common peasant male names like "Jiro" and "Jiro Sanlang"—basically, everyone had the same generic name.

Since childhood, their parents had just called them "Taichiro," "Jiro," or "Sanlang." No one gave them formal names, so once they grew up, those nicknames became de facto names. Call out "Taichiro," and over ten people would shout back.

So, the very first thing he did in forming his army was renaming all the soldiers. Of a hundred and forty-some men, nearly sixty needed to be distinguished from each other. He racked his brains, using names from grass, trees, rocks, dirt, pots, bowls, pans, buckets, houses, wells, rivers, lakes—anything he could think of. Only then could he organize and perform roll call smoothly.

Getting discipline straightened out was also a pain. He’d hesitated before, worrying that the military regulations he’d copied from Yuan Datou were too strict, maybe too inhumane. But putting them in practice proved some clauses were absolutely necessary. After all, with this many people, you get every kind of crook. Some people acted wild and reckless; without cutting off a few heads, the evil wind just wouldn’t die down.

For example, regulations spelled out clearly—and the Military Police had lectured them endlessly, made them recite it by heart—they all knew gambling was forbidden. Still, people broke the rules, gambling in secret. One guy lost all his issued clothing and shoes, then showed up stark naked for training the next day.

Harano had no other choice but to enforce discipline—he executed all six idiots who’d gotten caught sneaking off to gamble.

Really, there was nothing else to be done. If you don’t kill to warn the rest, nothing will work.

Another example: there were those who refused to do their duty shifts, for who knows what reason—just flat out wouldn’t obey orders to go clean the latrines;

Another time, two guys were assigned as night sentries, supposed to be one in the open and one hidden—a sort of mock drill according to regulations. Instead, those two got together and openly made a fire at midnight to roast field mice—managed to violate several regulations at once.

There were even people climbing the walls and sneaking out, some who refused to memorize the rules no matter what, some who beat others up and snatched things, some who stole clothes and shoes, some who faked illness or injury to avoid training, some who bullied people into covering their work shifts, some who tried to bribe the Military Police...

With so much nonsense going on, all you could say was there had to be a reason for strict regulations, no matter how harsh. Yuan Datou must’ve gone mad trying to keep seven thousand men in line—had to go chopping heads all day long, or he’d never have gotten a real army, and it would’ve all gone to hell.

Like Yuan Datou, Harano had to execute a batch himself—wiped out nearly 10% of his men. Day to day, he’d have Ah Man lead the veteran Lang Faction in strictly enforcing discipline: checking rule memorization every day, making everyone recite in pieces. Any slip and they’d get knocked down and beaten until they wailed like banshees; pain so deep it got into their bones. Whatever you did, you had to recite the rules first. It’d taken over a month of beatings to finally get the rest in line—to look and act something like proper soldiers.

At any rate, these past five or six days, no one dared slack off or play tricks, no one dared steal or fight, no one disobeyed orders, and no one went roasting field mice on sentry duty anymore.

Harano himself didn’t know what kind of force this would turn out to be if things kept going like this, or whether it could qualify as something like a modern army—he had no experience, wasn’t some reincarnated super general. Still, at least it had to be an improvement over the "Lang Faction + Ashigaru" model...